Beauty
by SkullszEyes
Summary: She was interrupted by a man who was not phased by what she was doing to the woman in the bath tub, but he lead her to an art gallery, and they spent time looking at his portraits, before their eyes went to each other.


Euphoric. The intensity gliding through skin and bone, the blood pooling out from the open wound. It was tantalizing to watch, to ease the knife and glide it deeper into the flesh. She was intoxicated, deeply ingrained in what she was doing. Her hand was firm on the handle of the knife, and she opened her mouth, breathing unevenly.

She was knelt beside the tub, the shower curtains were pushed to the side, and the naked body of a woman was submerged in water, blood seeping in swirling motions. There was barely any light in the bathroom she was in, but enough so she can see what she was doing. The woman herself ached, shaking, parts of her body was numb so she wouldn't fight. Instead she stared at the ceiling, her mouth parted, and she gasped a few times when the knife went in too deeply.

She hummed to rid the room of the silence. Her arms were splattered with blood, including her shirt and pants. Her feet remained bare, brushing against each other.

It wasn't until the silence was broken when she heard the taps of someone coming down the hall. She kept on humming, tightening her hand on her knife, she carved into the woman's skin, deeper, deeper, and deeper until she found the bone peeking through the flesh. The woman tilted her head back, her mouth falling open as a stilted cry left her lips.

The noise stopped, and she drew back the knife to look over her shoulder. She expected another distinct scream, or someone to fight her for the release of this poor woman. Instead, she found an immaculate looking man in a blue suit with a red scarf, he had dark hair, one side of his face was covered with it. His hands were tucked in his pockets, and he didn't look in anyway scared of what she was doing, more like she piqued his interest.

"Help….help….me," the woman murmured, noticing the man.

She turned back to the woman, annoyed, she brought the knife to the woman's neck, and pushed in before slicing it through. The woman jerked, broken gasps, as the blood sprayed on the white wall. She gripped the sides of the tub and pushed up, rising to her feet. Her face was wet with blood, and when she looked at him, he didn't seem in anyway disturbed.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," he said, his voice smooth and amused.

"Who are you?" she asked, gripping the handle of her knife.

"I'm Stefano Valentini," he introduced.

"How did you find me?"

"I followed the bodies," he said, matter-of-factly.

She narrowed her eyes at him, suspiciously. She didn't know who he was, and why he was here. Obviously he was part of Union, but she never noticed anyone to remember names or appearances. She took what she needed, and did what she wanted. This was unexpected, she never came across anyone who was nonchalant to what she did.

"It's beautiful," he said.

She didn't look back at the body. "It would have been," she told him, and walked toward him, but he didn't seem threatened, and she didn't have point in using her knife. So she walked past him and he followed her to another room adjacent to the bathroom. She dropped the knife beside a mattress and grabbed a black duffel bag from the closet, unzipping it, she took out a pair of clean pants and a shirt.

Without looking at Stefano, she took off her pants, she wore black underwear underneath, grabbing the pants, she pulled it on, jumping a bit to secure it around her hips. She took off her shirt next, her bra didn't match her underwear, it was a blue color. She bent down and grabbed her shirt.

She looked at him, he was watching her as she pulled the shirt over her head.

"I don't care about your opinion," she said, knowing he was going to say something about her undressing in front of him. She didn't care, she lost her feeling of caring about other people a long time, and killing others was more of a dissolute from her daily life in Union.

She placed her bloody clothes into the bag and tossed it in the closet. She turned to him, and her mind went to her knife, but then she would have to bend down for it, and it would give him an opening to attack her. Why hadn't he yet?

"I didn't think there were others like me," he said, his blue eye traveled along her body and back up at her face, a sort of heady look came upon him.

She raised a brow, ignoring his ogling. "You're a killer?"

"I prefer artist."

Of course he would. She wasn't blinded by the sickness of killing, but even the delusional will try to justify the means.

"What do you want?" she asked, noting the subtle beauty of his face, and the clothes he chosen for himself, even his words were something strange, a lull in her ears that made her shiver with delight.

"Your time." With that, he walked down the hall and she let out a sigh and followed after him. She walked by the dead bodies, her feet still bare, blood oozing between her toes with each step she took. He lead her outside and down the street.

"Where are we going?"

"To the art gallery," he said, as if it were obvious.

She glanced around, but it was late and no one would be out. She looked back at the footprints of blood on the pavement. It was fading away with each step she took. Someone will the find the house, the bodies laid out, but she couldn't will herself to care.

There wasn't anything better to do, but she wished she had her knife. It would make her feel safe while following this man. He looked several years older than her, but he had a face that didn't outright unnerve her. She was simply curious.

They made it to the art gallery and they walked in. The building was quiet, and as she looked around, most of the lights were still on. She noticed the portraits they wandered by, they were all strangely gruesome, blood in each one, or something particularly dead. She realized this was his art, and maybe the bodies were once alive before he created them forever in pictures.

"Why am I here?" she asked him after a moment of silence.

"I thought maybe you'd want to feel less alone," he said, but she didn't believe him, there was something in his voice that sounded mocking.

"I think it's you who doesn't want to feel alone," she said, slowing her steps.

He stopped in front of one of the portraits, turning his head, he looked at her with amazement across his face. "It's beautiful, just like the art you created."

She looked at the picture of a woman, delicate features, a light shining along her pale skin, flowers danced around her, and there was no drop of blood anywhere, but she knew the woman was dead.

She walked beside him, staring up at the portrait. They were similar, and maybe they didn't see things the same way, but they killed nonetheless. He just made it into something that people would consider art, while she simply drowned herself in the intoxication of their flesh and blood.

They moved onto the other portraits, and he told her things about it. The quiet around them was suffocating, and she started to hum to keep it away. They were walking down the hall, and she reached out for his arm, while the other grabbed his shoulder as she leaned up and kissed him.

It wasn't anything romantic in her mind, but longing to feel something. She moved back, not in the least embarrassed for what she did, she knew her face must've looked blank, and her voice was discontent. "I'm sorry."

It happened quick, a blur before her back hit the wall, her chin tilted up and his lips touched hers. Her eyes widened, and his was opened as well, and when he was about to pull back, she held onto him.

"Not yet," she whispered against his mouth as she kissed him. She felt his hands on her sides, roaming up under her shirt, his finger smoothing along her bra before going back down to stroke her hips.

Was it desire that spiked her blood, or an urgency in her brain, but she didn't want it to stop. Her heart raced against her chest, and she wanted him closer. She gripped his jacket and when her hand snaked along his lower back, she felt something there, a handle, she pulled away.

His hand came up to the back of her hair and he pulled, yanking her head back and his mouth sucked and bit at the skin. She panted, moaning low, her fingers digging into his arms. His other hand gripped her leg, and she was hoisted up against the wall, her legs coming around his waist as her hands pressed on his shoulders.

"Scared?" he asked, wiping something which she figured was blood from her cheek.

She had the urge to roll her eyes. "I just killed a woman, and you're asking if _I'm_ scared." Her breath trembled, and his hands tightened on her leg.

She grasped both sides of his head and kissed him, reveling in the passion as much as she could. There was a noise that stopped them, they looked down the hall and she felt his hands loosen on her hip. She slid off of him, staring down the hall, panting slightly, her lips tingling.

"You should go check that out," she told him, securing her hands behind her back as she rocked on her feet.

Stefano frowned, and walked down the hall, when he disappeared around the corner. She raised her hand and held his knife. It was large with pointed edges, she twirled it in her hand as she headed for the front door of the building.

"This will make him come back," she gripped the handle, "and maybe then we can have a different kind of fun."


End file.
